**Diary Entry – October 12th**
I’ve never liked working with children. It’s tricky, exhausting, and fraught with risks. A child’s energy is still unformed, too open to the wrong kind of influence. They exist within their mother’s aura, which means twice the work, and worse—kids have wild imaginations. Who didn’t dream of magic as a child? Invent invisible friends? Every word from a young “client” must be double-checked, and it wears you down.
When Emily Wainwright appeared on my doorstep in a dramatic black coat, blood-red lips, and too much blue eyeshadow, I didn’t react. Eccentric clients are nothing new. But the boy hovering behind her, no older than ten, put me on edge. I opened my mouth to refuse—children are off-limits—before she cut in sharply.
*”We have an appointment. I’m Emily—we spoke yesterday? My profile picture was my cat, remember?”*
Oh, I remembered the cat.
*”Very well. Come in.”*
Perhaps the boy was just along for the ride while Emily dealt with her own troubles. I studied her discreetly. A well-kept woman in her forties, carrying a little extra weight but still striking. Her makeup was bold, almost harsh, her wrists cluttered with jangling bracelets. And the black clothes—was it mourning? A performance? Either way, she wore it like a costume, relishing the drama. *”A show-off,”* I thought. *”And I’m about to be her audience.”*
*”My husband died,”* she announced, dabbing dry eyes with a handkerchief.
*”My condolences,”* I said politely, *”but I don’t conduct séances. They’re dangerous and rarely useful.”*
Undeterred, she switched tactics. *”Our family has a gift,”* she whispered theatrically. *”My great-great-grandmother was a witch, and my third cousin twice removed—”*
*”Let me guess, also a witch?”* I barely kept the sarcasm from my voice. These days, every other client claims ancestral magic. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find someone in every family who dabbled. But magic, like boxing, isn’t inherited. Just because your grandfather stepped into a ring doesn’t mean you can throw a punch.
*”The gift skips generations,”* she declared, spitting over her left shoulder—though I caught the flash of disappointment in her eyes. *”It passed me by. But my son, Thomas…”* Her voice swelled with pride. *”He sees ghosts!”*
*”Sees ghosts, does he?”* This never ends well. Most likely, the boy was hallucinating—why parents drag these children to psychics instead of psychiatrists baffles me. The other possibility? An actual haunting. Sometimes “gifts” are just curses by another name.
*”Tell her about the ghosts!”* Emily demanded.
The boy—Thomas—mumbled reluctantly, *”Not ghosts. Just one. My dad… visits me at night.”* He fell silent, shooting his mother a pleading look. *”Can we go now?”*
Emily beamed, puffing up like a proud peacock. Meanwhile, a shadow loomed behind Thomas. Not his father. Something darker. My skin prickled, but I kept my voice steady. *”This is worse than I thought.”*
*”Imagine—a child on ‘Britain’s Psychic Challenge’!”* Emily gushed. *”The first boy medium! It would be sensational!”*
Thomas shrank into his chair. Oh, this woman loved spectacle far more than I’d realized.
*”Your energy is… overwhelming,”* I lied, ushering her out. *”I need to work with Thomas alone. Take a walk. Come back in an hour.”*
She left, mollified by the buzzwords. Alone, Thomas at first resisted, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched. But bit by bit, he relaxed—starved, perhaps, for an adult who actually listened.
I closed my eyes, tuning into his voice, and saw the truth.
***
Thomas had adored his father. They’d played soldiers, skated in the park, and his dad had taught him to swim and perform card tricks. When his parents fought, Thomas always sided with Dad, forgiving every forgotten promise for the sake of ice creams and balloon animals.
His school essay—*”My Best Friend”*—was about his father. His teacher, Mrs. Higgins, pulled him aside: *”No schoolmates to write about?”* Thomas didn’t explain. *”Stupid woman,”* he’d thought. *”I’ve got loads of mates—Jamie, Liam, Sophie. But Dad was my best.”*
Then the accident. His mother wailed, tore her hair, threatened to throw herself into the grave. Thomas couldn’t cry—not outwardly. His grief turned inward, a leaden weight. The guilt was worse: his dad had asked him to go fishing that day. Thomas had chosen footie with his friends instead. *”If I’d gone, he’d still be alive.”*
The thought hollowed him out. Soon, he could barely get out of bed. Meanwhile, his mother moved on—dating a co-worker, Uncle Mark. Thomas hated him on sight, especially when Dad’s photos vanished from the walls.
Then, one night, his father visited his dreams. Not a horror-movie ghost—just Dad, red-bearded, grinning, holding balloons.
*”You’re alive!”* Thomas cried.
His father smiled but didn’t speak.
*”It was all a mistake?”* Thomas whispered.
Dad spread his hands—*”See for yourself.”*
They spent the night in the park, eating candy floss, laughing. For the first time in months, Thomas felt almost happy.
From then on, he lived two lives. By day, school, homework, football. By night, his father returned—teaching him to throw a punch, helping him talk to a girl he fancied, even taking him to the cinema. The guilt eased. The pain dulled.
***
The entity behind Thomas watched me, evaluating. Not a demon, as I’d first thought. Something older, stronger. A being woven from sorrow, feeding on it.
I hugged Thomas gently. *”You know it’s not really your dad, don’t you?”*
Months of tears spilled out. I let him cry, rubbing his back, refilling his tea, feeding him biscuits.
*”How did you know?”* he whispered.
*”I’m a witch.”*
*”It felt… off,”* he admitted. *”Like in ‘Men in Black’—when the alien wears a human skin? It moved all wrong. Dad in my dreams… he wasn’t right.”*
*”Clever boy.”* Grief blinds people to such details—the odd gait, the wrong words.
*”Your father’s gone,”* I said gently. *”Likely reborn somewhere new. As for you… we’ll sort this now.”*
I faced the spirit. Most entities stoke the emotions they feed on—pushing victims toward addiction, violence. This one thrived on a child’s sorrow. It had to go.
*”Don’t fret, witch,”* it murmured. *”His pain is nearly gone. I’m leaving.”*
*”Just like that?”* I stared.
*”I’ve eaten my fill. Your world has sorrow enough—I shan’t go hungry.”*
It released Thomas. The boy shuddered—not with anger, but quiet sadness.
*”I’ll miss him,”* he whispered.
A breeze ruffled his hair—one last embrace—then the spirit vanished.
***
The doorbell shattered the moment. Emily barged in. *”Well? Will you train him? For the show?”*
I sent Thomas outside. Telling Emily her son had hosted a grief-devouring entity would only send her hunting for a charlatan to call him “gifted.”
*”It’s grief,”* I said firmly. *”Not magic. He needs a therapist—not spectacle. Drag him to psychics, and you’ll break him.”*
*”But he never cried!”* Emily protested. *”I thought he didn’t understand…”*
*”Trauma,”* I said sharply. *”See a doctor.”*
I’d met that spirit once before—at a graveside, behind a sobbing girl. It had nodded at me then, almost… kindly.
People blame their wounds for every cruelty. But even a thing born of pain can choose mercy—if it wants to.
**Lesson today:** Darkness isn’t an excuse. Light is always a choice.
